


All We Need Now Is Ideas

by jiokra



Category: The Bones of an Idol - The New Pornographers (Song)
Genre: Gen, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-17
Updated: 2015-12-17
Packaged: 2018-05-06 00:02:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5395163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jiokra/pseuds/jiokra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An epilogue to the song The Bones of an Idol by The New Pornographers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All We Need Now Is Ideas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BleedingHeartCrow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BleedingHeartCrow/gifts).



> Happy Yuletide!

They crest the riverbank at dawn, limbs weary from the rabid flight outside of the city walls. Howls from hounds and hollers from hell blazed knights on a journey toward Righteousness — it follows in their wake, but at a distance, a safe one, days away.

Idol tears off his helmet, teeth glinting in moonlight. A fierce grin erupts over his gallant features. Chain mail clanks and grimaces as it collides with his chest plate, his heaving gasps achieving little to assuage its torment. Jacqueline casts him with a hesitant glance; hand grazed on the leather satchel slung over her shoulder, she watches the shadows strewn across Idol’s face. 

Were she to blink, or merely look away, Jacqueline might notice the filth-soaked pavement, the absence of medieval architecture, the homeless souls drooped over themselves, beards long and ragged. 

The bones — she can feel them beneath the leather where they rest on the bottom of the satchel. Heavy in weight, gold. 

Idol tosses his hands in the air, embracing the night. “I’ve never felt more alive, Jackie.” 

She tears away, turning toward the river. Colors bleed into colors that bleed into more colors, and soon the vibrations emanating from his body, echoes from the flight, the Righteous swords they had narrowly evaded, encapsulate her. 

Hair drifts over her eyes. Or, rather, curls damp from grime and sweat, and they slither more than drift. Idol terrifies and excites her; no matter the many times — and they be many — that he tempts her with destruction, the thrill traces conviction and purpose up her spine. 

Fish travel down lazy currents in the river. 

“Any ideas of where to go?” he asks her, and steals a peek at her out the corner of his eye. 

She catches it, and doesn’t let go.


End file.
